The Far Pavilions by M. M. Kaye
The Pathan ducked his head in salute to the Sahib-log, and at a word from Cavagnari, withdrew down the back of the ridge to the shelter of a tumble of rocks some twenty to thirty feet below, where he squatted down to wait, while above him the five men flattened themselves among the stones and took up their binoculars again as the featureless, pasteboard outlines of the hills took on shape and dimension and the morning mists shredded away.
The sky above them was no longer pearl-grey but cerulean, and from somewhere out of sight a partridge began to call. Then of a sudden the grass was streaked with long blue shadows, and four miles away as the crow flies, something glinted brightly in the blaze of the rising sun; pinpointing an insignificant hill-top that until then had been indistinguishable among a hundred others.
‘Guns,’ breathed Colonel Jenkins. ‘Yes, that's Ali Masjid all right, and as your Pathan friend says, it's been well and truly re-inforced. Just look at those breastworks.’
The fort, now suddenly visible, crowned a conical hill that barely showed above a stony ridge that was scored with lines of newly built breastworks which the binoculars showed to be well defended. There was also a cavalry encampment at the foot of the ridge, and presently a small body of horsemen emerged from among the tents, and riding up to the Shagai plateau, made their way across it to a little tower near the Mackeson road: presumably the picket that the Pathan had spoken of.
‘Time we went, I think,’ decided Major Cavagnari, putting away his binoculars. ‘Those fellows have got eyes like hawks, and we don't want to be spotted. Come on.’
They found the Pathan still squatting, frontier-fashion, among the rocks, his jezail across his knees, and Cavagnari motioned the others to go on ahead and went over to exchange a last word with him: but catching up with them a few minutes later as they hurried forward down the grassy hillside towards the safety of the plains and their own side of the border, he checked suddenly and called to Wigram, who stopped and turned:
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I'm sorry, but I forgot something –’ Cavagnari produced a handful of silver and a packet of cheap country-made cigarettes and thrust it at Wigram. ‘Be a good fellow and take this up to that man up there, will you? I usually give him a few rupees and some of these things, and I don't want him turning up in Jamrud to demand his baksheesh, and being recognized. We won't wait for you –’ He turned and hurried on downward as Wigram started back up the steep slope.
The chill had gone out of the morning and now the sun was hot on Wigram's shoulders and there were butterflies on the hillside: familiar, English-looking butterflies. Fritillaries, brimstones, meadow-browns and tiny common blues that reminded him of summer holidays long ago, when he and Quentin had been boys and gone butterfly-hunting in the fields and lanes of Home. There were birds too, twittering among the grasses, and when a shred of shadow flicked over him he looked up and saw a lammergeyer very high in the blue, soaring majestically above the tumbled ridges of the Khyber.
Now that the sun was up, walking back up the hillside was warmer work than it had been in the chill starlight before dawn, and as he plodded forward, sweat soaked his shirt and ran down into his eyes. He brushed the drops away irritably and wondered if Cavagnari's Pathan would still be there, and if not, what he was supposed to do about it. But a faint sound drifted down to him: the ghost of a melody – Zakmi dil, that traditional love-song of a land where homosexuality has always been an accepted part of life… ‘There's a boy across the river with a bottom like a peach, but alas, I cannot swim…’
The familiar tune was half hummed, half sung, but as the climber drew nearer it changed to something even more familiar, and in that setting, startlingly unexpected: ‘D’ ken John Peel with his coat so gay -’
Wigram stopped dead, staring upward at the bearded figure squatting in the shade of the rocks. ‘Well I'm damned -!’ He broke into a run and arrived panting. ‘Ashton – you young devil. I didn't recognize you… I had no idea… Why the deuce didn't you say something? Why -’
Ash had risen to his feet to grasp the outstretched hand. ‘Because your friend Cavagnari didn't want the others to know. He wasn't going to let you know either if I hadn't insisted. But I said I had to speak to you, so he agreed to send you back. Sit down, and don't talk too loudly – it's astonishing how far a sound can carry in these hills.’
Wigram subsided cross-legged on the ground, and Ash said: ‘Now tell me the news. Have you heard anything of my wife? Is she all right? I haven't dared try to get in touch with her in case… And how are Wally and Zarin? – and the Corps and… Oh, everything: I've been starving for news!’
Wigram was able to reassure him about Anjuli, one of the Begum's servants having ridden over to Jamrud only three days earlier, bringing a message to Zarin from his Aunt Fatima to say that all under her roof were well and in good heart, and that she hoped the same could be said of him – and also of his friends. As this last was clearly an oblique inquiry as to whether there was any news of Ash, Zarin had sent back a reply saying that no one need have anxiety on that score; he and his friends were in excellent health.
‘That was because I'd told him you were getting messages through to Cavagnari, so you were obviously still alive and presumably safe and well,’ said Wigram, and went on to talk of Wally and what the Guides were doing, and to describe the war-like preparations that were creating chaos throughout the North-Western territories. Men and guns hurriedly transferred from one command to reinforce another; additional regiments rushed up from down-country to fill the gaps; supply trains pouring into the terminus of the North-Western Railway at Jhelum, blocking the platforms and jamming every siding with truck-loads of dead and dying transport mules and other pack animals abandoned by their native drivers. Not to mention the piles of foodstuffs, clothing and ammunition that the under-staffed Commissariat were totally incapable of coping with…
‘It's like something out of Dante's Inferno,’ said Wigram, ‘and the only people who are really enjoying it are the budmarshes from every village for miles around, who are having the time of their lives looting the stuff. And to make bad worse, most of the troops from down-country have been sent up wearing tropical kit, so unless something can be done about that pretty quickly, half of them are going to die of pneumonia.’
Ash observed sardonically that it sounded like a typical Staff rumpus, and that if it was like this now, God only knew what it would be like if there really was a war.
‘Oh, I expect we shall muddle through all right,’ said Wigram tolerantly.
‘Why,’ demanded Ash, exasperated, ‘is it necessary to “muddle through”? Anyone would think that it was “bad form” to plan ahead and – What are you laughing about?’
‘You,’ grinned Wigram, ‘squatting there on your hunkers, the dead-spit of a home-grown Khyber bandit, and spouting about “bad form”. You must admit it has its humorous side.’
Ash laughed and apologized, and Wigram said: ‘I suppose it's that beard that changes you so completely. I'd absolutely no idea it was you. Anyway, I thought you were in Kabul.’
‘I was. But I wanted to see Cavagnari myself instead of writing or sending a verbal message through the usual channels. I thought that if I could talk to him I might be able to persuade him to see things differently; but I was wrong. In fact all I've done is to make him think that I'm growing far too -biased in favour of the Amir, and in grave danger of becoming “unreliable”. By which I presume he means turning traitor.’
‘Been losing your temper again, Ashton?’ inquired Wigram with a faint smile' ‘Because you're talking poppycock, you know. Of course he doesn't think anything of the sort. Or if he does, it means you've gone out of your way to give him that impression. What have you been saying to upset him?’
‘The truth,’ said Ash bleakly. ‘And I might just as well have saved my breath and stayed in Kabul, for he does not want to believe it. I'm beginning to think that none of them do – the fellows in Simla, I mean.’
‘What won't they be
‘That there is no danger whatever of the Amir allowing the Russians to build roads and establish military bases in his country, and that even if he were mad enough to agree to it, his people would not and it is they who count. I've told Cavagnari again and again that the Afghans do not want to take sides with either of us: Russia or the Raj – Yes, yes, I know what you're going to say: he said it too… “But the Amir welcomed the Russian Mission to Kabul.” Well, what if he did? What the hell else could he do – bearing in mind that there was a Russian army across the Oxus and advancing on his borders, half his territories were in revolt, and news of Russian victories in Turkey was spreading across Asia like wildfire? He did his damnedest to put Stolietoff and his lot off, and then tried to delay their arrival; but when it became clear that they were coming anyway, he did the only thing he could do short of shooting them all and taking the consequences: he put a good face on it and gave them a public welcome. That's all there was to it. He didn't want them any more than he wants us, and the Viceroy knows it – or if he doesn't, his intelligence service must be the worst in the world!’
‘You must admit that it didn't look too good from this end,’ observed Wigram judicially, ‘after all, the Amir had refused to receive a British Mission.’
‘And why not? We prate about our “rights” in Afghanistan and our “right” to have a Mission in Kabul, but who the hell gave us these “rights”? It isn't our country and it has never been a threat to us – except as a possible ally of Russia's and a base for a Russian attack on India, and everyone knows by now that any danger of that, if it ever existed, ended with the recent signing of the Berlin Treaty. So it's sheer flaming nonsense to pretend that we have anything to fear from Afghanistan herself. The whole thing can almost certainly be settled peaceably; it's not too late for that. There is still time. But it seems that we prefer to consider ourselves seriously threatened and to pretend that we have leaned over backwards to conciliate the Amir, but that our patience is now exhausted. Good God, Wigram, do our blasted Big-wigs want a second Afghan war?’
Wigram shrugged his shoulders and said: ‘Why ask me? I'm only a poor bloody cavalry officer who does what he's told and goes where he's sent. I'm not in the confidence of the great, so my opinion isn't worth much; but from what I hear, the answer is “Yes” – they do want a war.’
‘That's what I thought. Imperialism has gone to their heads and they want to see more and more of the map painted pink, and to go down in the history books as great men; Pro-Consuls and modern Alexanders. Pah! – it makes me sick.’
Wigram said: ‘You mustn't blame Cavagnari. I heard him tell Faiz Mohammed at Ali Masjid that he was only a servant of the Government, who did what he was told. And that's as true of him as it is of me.’
‘Perhaps. But men like him, men who really do know something about the Khyber tribes and can talk to them in their own dialects, should be advising the Viceroy and his fellow fire-eaters to hold their horses, instead of urging them to charge. Which is what he would seem to be doing. Oh well, I've done my best; but it was a mistake to think that anyone could ever make him believe anything that he does not want to believe.’
‘It was worth trying,’ said Wigram defensively.
‘I suppose so,’ conceded Ash with a sigh. ‘You know, I didn't mean to unload my bile on you. I only meant to ask you about my wife, and about Wally and Zarin and the rest, and to ask you to see that Zarin lets my wife know that you have seen me and talked to me and that I'm all right… and so on. I didn't mean to get side-tracked into this other nonsense, but I suppose it's been weighing on my mind too much.’
‘I'm not surprised,’ said Wigram with feeling. ‘It's been weighing on mine too. And if it comes to that, so have you! I've found myself lying awake at night wondering if I did right in interfering and getting you involved in all this, and if I wouldn't have done a lot better to keep my mouth shut and avoid having your death on my conscience.’
‘I didn't know you had one,’ mocked Ash, grinning. ‘You don't have to worry, Wigram: I can look after myself. But I admit I shall be infernally glad when this is over.’
‘Me too!’ agreed Wigram with ungrammatical fervour. ‘In fact I'll have a word with the Commandant, and see if he can't ask for you to be recalled.’
Ash's grin faded and he said ruefully: ‘No, Wigram, don't tempt me. I walked into this with my eyes open, and you know as well as I do that I must go on with it as long as there is a ghost of a chance that even at this eleventh hour reason may prevail: because Afghanistan is no country to fight a war in – and an impossible one to hold if you win. And anyway, I object, on principle, to injustice.’
‘ “It isn't fair” in fact,’ murmured Wigram provocatively.
Ash laughed and acknowledged the hit with a raised palm, but remained unrepentant: ‘You're right. It isn't fair. And if war is declared, it will be an unjust and unjustifiable war, and I do not believe that God will be on our side. Well, it's been good to see you Wigram. Will you see that my wife gets this' – he handed over a folded and sealed piece of paper – ‘and give my love to Wally and Zarin and tell them that their Uncle Akbar has their interests at heart. And if you have any influence with Cavagnari, try to persuade him that I am neither a liar nor a renegade, and that to the best of my knowledge everything I have told him is strictly true.’
I'll try,’ said Wigram. ‘Goodbye – and good luck.’
He rose to his feet and went away down the hillside, and reaching the plain in safety, mounted his waiting horse and rode swiftly back to Jamrud in the bright mid-morning sunlight.
Later that day he had talked with Major Cavagnari about Ash. But the conversation had been brief and inconclusive, and Wigram was left with the impression that he would have done better to leave well alone.
Neither man was, at the time, aware that much of Ash's views were shared by no less a person than Her Majesty's Prime Minister, Lord Beaconsfield – Victoria's beloved ‘Dizzy’ – who in the course of a speech delivered at the Lord Mayor's Banquet at London's Guildhall had expressed them to a nicety: though he had been careful to avoid naming names…
‘One would suppose, from all we hear,’ Dizzy had said, ‘that our Indian Empire is on the eve of being invaded, and that we are about to enter into a struggle with some powerful and unknown foe. In the first place, my Lord Mayor, Her Majesty's Government are by no means apprehensive of any invasion of India by our North-West Frontier. The base of operations of any possible foe is so remote, the communications are so difficult, the aspect of the country is so forbidding, that we do not believe under these circumstances that any invasion of our North-West Frontier is practicable.’
But though the invention of the telegraph had made it possible to send news from one end of India to the other with miraculous speed, communication with England was still painfully slow, so no one in India was aware of these sentiments. Nor would the planners in Simla or the busy Generals in Peshawar and Quetta and Kohat have paid much attention to them if they had known, for though Cavagnari's scheme of capturing Ali Masjid had been abandoned, its ultimate effects had proved catastrophic. The formidable number of the reinforcements that Faiz Mohammed had, as a result, hastily gathered for its defence had seriously alarmed the Viceroy's military advisers, who decided that the presence of so large a force within sight of the Frontier was a danger to India and must be countered by a similar mobilization of troops on the British side of the Border.
Once again couriers from India carried letters to Kabul. Letters that accused the Amir of being ‘activated by motives inimical to the British Government' in receiving the Russian Mission, and demanding a ‘full and suitable apology' for the hostile action of the Governor of Ali Masjid in refusing passage to a British one. And once again it was stressed that friendly relations between the two countries depended on the Amir's acceptance of a permanent British Mission in his capital:
‘Unless these conditions are accepted, fully and plainly by you,’ wrote Lord Lytto
But the luckless Shere Ali, who had once described himself as being like ‘an earthen pipkin between two iron pots' (and who by this time had come to detest the British and distrust their motives), could not decide on how to treat this ultimatum. Instead he hesitated and wavered, wringing his hands and railing against fate, and hoping that if he took no action the crisis might somehow dissolve, as previous ones had done. For after all, the Russians had left Kabul and Stolietoff was now actually writing to him to recommend that he make peace with the British – Stolietoff, whose insistence on thrusting his way into Afghanistan, uninvited, had caused all this trouble in the first place. It was too much!
In Simla the Viceroy's Private Secretary, Colonel Colley, who was as eager for war as his lord and master, was writing: ‘Our principal anxiety now is lest the Amir should send an apology, or the Home Government interfere.’
Colonel Colley need not have been anxious. The twentieth day of November came and went, and there was still no word from the Amir. And on the twenty-first, declaring that he had no quarrel with the Afghan people but only with their ruler, Lord Lytton ordered his Generals to advance. A British Army marched into Afghanistan, and the Second Afghan War had begun.
53
The December weather had been unusually mild, but with the arrival of the New Year the temperature had begun to fall, and there came a day when Ash was aroused in the small hours of the morning by the furtive touch of soft, cold fingers on his cheeks and his closed eyelids.
He had been dreaming again, and in his dream he had been lying half-asleep by the side of a rushing stream in a valley among the mountains. Sita'svalley. It was spring and there were pear trees in blossom, and a breeze blowing through the branches loosened the petals and sent them floating down to rest upon his face.